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eBook Category: Horror
eBook Description: Raymond Johnson has horrible visions. From childhood, he's seen the world end--on a football field, with demons devouring his team and the fans and--everything. Those morbid visions haunt every quarter of his life, and by halftime, his quest is to avoid dying and seeing what happens in the fourth quarter. But nobody lives forever.

eBook Publisher: Fictionwise.com, Published: Where Angels Fear, 2008
Fictionwise Release Date: August 2008

1 Reader Ratings: Great Good OK Poor

Available eBook Formats [MultiFormat - What's this?]: Adobe Acrobat (PDF) [147 KB], eReader (PDB) [22 KB], Palm Doc (PDB) [8 KB], Rocket/REB1100 (RB) [8 KB], Microsoft Reader (LIT) [71 KB] - PocketPC 1.0+ Compatible, Franklin eBookMan (FUB) [79 KB], hiebook (KML) [50 KB], Sony Reader (LRF) [36 KB], iSilo (PDB) [6 KB], Mobipocket (PRC) [9 KB], Kindle Compatible (MOBI) [36 KB], OEBFF Format (IMP) [16 KB]
Words: 2266
Reading time: 6-9 min.
Microsoft Reader (LIT) Format: Printing DISABLED, Read-Aloud ENABLED
Adobe Acrobat (PDF) Format:  Printing DISABLED, Read-Aloud DISABLED
All Other formats: Printing DISABLED, Read-aloud DISABLED

When Raymond Johnson was seven, he saw the first quarter of the end of the world.

He and some boys were out on a sweaty summer night, on the street in front of his apartment, playing tag and whatever else they could find to do in San Francisco's Mission District. Waiting, Ray later decided, to grow up enough to join a gang.

They went into Ray's apartment to raid the refrigerator. Not that there was more food in it than in the other kids' folks' fridges. None of them ate enough, regularly. Stealing fruit at the A&P was not a game. Ray's place was just closest at the time.

They found Ray's old man, his stepfather, home early and passed out on the sofa, an army of crushed beer cans around him, a six-pack of Coors still unopened on the floor. There was a whiskey bottle too, half drained. The old fart snored like a bad tranny shifting gears, mouth open, and spit hung from slack lips to his greasy T-shirt.

Some of the kids wanted to light his tennis shoes on fire, or stuff a dirty sock in his mouth, but Ray said no. "At least he's asleep," he whispered, rubbing his skinny arm, where the latest bruises had started to fade. The other boys understood.

They took the beer and whiskey and left.

Somewhere between throwing up in an alley behind the Lucky Nickel Pawn Shop on Howard Street and waking up in an abandoned '91 Camero just off O'Farrell the next day, he had his vision.